


Under an Endless Sky

by Curator



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Canon Compliant, Driving Lessons, End Scene, Episode: s02e01 The 37's, F/M, Making Out, Missing Scene, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26752912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curator/pseuds/Curator
Summary: A red truck, a captain, a helmsman … and a sky full of stars.
Relationships: Kathryn Janeway/Tom Paris
Comments: 25
Kudos: 58





	Under an Endless Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_Modern_Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Modern_Girl/gifts).



> For A_Modern_Girl, who issued the prompt of a 37’s J/P missing scene in the red truck, then was kind enough to take this story for a test-drive via her wonderful beta wisdom.
> 
> ***
> 
> _I don't care, go on and tear me apart_  
>  _I don't care if you do ooh ooh_  
>  _'Cause in a sky, 'cause in a sky full of stars_  
>  _I think I saw you_  
>  — “A Sky Full of Stars,” Coldplay 

The holodeck doors hiss open.

“Finally.” Tom twists the last gasket into place, his grease-stained hands slipping slightly on the socket wrench. “I want you to see the carburetor. I think I’ve got the fuel valve right, so if I can just —”

“Mr. Paris.” 

He looks up from the engine, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “You’re, uh, you’re not Harry.”

Kathryn’s head shakes as she walks toward him. “Hardly. Mr. Kim is detained, but he told me about your project and I wanted to take a look. I must say I’m impressed.”

His smile is pleased, proud. He’s easy to be with, Tom Paris, and she ignores the familiar knot low in her belly at the sight of him, choosing instead to admire the holographic sun dipping low on the horizon and countryside all around them, complete with grassy hills and a field of alfalfa.

He watches her study the landscape, and he wishes the simulation was real, wishes he could fly her home. Command is lonely by nature and he tells himself that’s why he thinks about her often, not because of the curves of her uniform or the sway of her hips.

Kathryn stops next to the driver’s side door of Tom’s holo-recreation of the 1936 Ford truck her crew returned to the 37’s.

“If I didn’t know better, I would think this is the real thing.” Her hand rests on weathered, red metal. “I can only hope historians on Earth will see what you’ve created here.”

“That was the idea. I asked Farmer Hayes some questions and programmed everything I could — the farm, the town, and this little lady.” Tom closes the hood, gives it a pat, and returns the socket wrench to his toolkit. “Mr. Hayes said he paid seven hundred and fifty dollars for her and the price was a bargain.” 

“Considering the vehicle lasted more than four hundred years, I’d say whatever he paid was worth it.” Kathryn thinks of the 37’s, so adaptable to new technologies, and she tugs open the driver’s side door. “Does it have propulsion? I’d love a lesson in how to maneuver it, if you have time.”

“I have time.”

Tom wipes his greasy hands on a rag and joins Kathryn in the cab of the truck. He scoots to the middle of the bench seat. 

She smells like shampoo, clean and fresh. 

He smells like a man who worked up a sweat tinkering in tight spaces, fingers stained dark from twisting and turning until he’s got an engine humming the way he wants it. 

This may not have been a good idea.

There’s an explanation about how to power up the vehicle and what the wheel in front of her is supposed to do and the importance of engaging the proper foot pedal. Kathryn is trying to listen, but her chest tingles and Tom’s lips look especially soft in the light of the setting sun. 

“Would you mind repeating that, Tom?”

Her brow furrows in concentration and Tom worries he’s using too much terminology, making this more difficult than it should be by explaining how the truck functions instead of just letting her try. With a little practice, he thinks she could be a good driver. He wants to watch her fingers slide along the wheel, her legs pump the pedals, maybe even her hair catch in the wind since the windows are rolled down.

“You know what.” Tom hands Kathryn a slim piece of metal with a jagged edge. “Turn this key, tap your foot on the starter there, and you can learn as you go.”

The metal is cool in Kathryn’s hand. Is she warm? Is it warm in here?

“I turn the key — where?” 

His fingers guide hers to a place behind the wheel in front of her. She has the sudden urge to take his dirty index finger into her mouth, to curl her tongue along its length, to lick his fingertip. His other hand would know to move between her legs, she’s sure of it. 

Her own words from a few days earlier ricochet in her mind: _We're a long way from Starfleet, and a lot of the rules and regulations I've learned to uphold seem distant as well._

What would happen if she just ...

The truck engine stutters to life.

Kathryn’s heart hammers. She had figured the sound wouldn’t be as startling a second time, but the entire vehicle shudders and shakes. 

It is the vehicle shuddering, right, not her?

“Oh God, I am so sorry.” Tom curses himself for scaring her. He shouldn’t have turned the key, but holding her hand was giving him visions of his fingers in her mouth, tangled in her hair, thrust deep between her legs.

“It’s all right.” She grips the wheel. “Now what?”

“Now you press the clutch with your left foot and put her in gear.” Tom positions Kathryn’s hand on the shifter, not sure if her breathing has gone ragged or if it’s the engine noise, “and you —” 

The truck stalls. 

“Oh.” Kathryn turns the key but the engine doesn’t re-engage. “What happened?”

“I think the transmission went out.” Tom watches Kathryn’s chest rise and fall. He speaks into the twilight, a sunset of deep, almost-black purples across an endless sky. “I can fix it, but the only thing this truck is good for right now is parking.”

“Parking?” Her voice is low. Tom’s thigh is next to hers on the bench seat. “Like a ship in spacedock?”

“In theory.” He isn’t sure if she wants this the way he does, but he thinks she might, and he lets his reach for the key in the ignition find her knee instead. “But ‘parking’ was also a euphemism.”

Her legs fall open — instinct she lets happen — and she guides his hand along the inside of her thigh. “Euphemism for what?”

“For this.” 

He kisses her. 

And she was right. Tom’s lips are soft — and he tastes of mint, cool and sweet.

And he was right. She wants this. Badly. Tongues sliding, hands grasping, breathy gasps of desire and need. Her hips shift and she straddles him sitting in the middle of the bench seat, her thighs tight, his erection pressing between her legs through too many layers of clothing. 

It’s friction. Chests and stomachs and his hands firm on her rear end as she rubs against him almost too hard but, oh, it’s good, so good. 

It’s her panting, not getting enough air, and he’s panting, too, and her tongue tastes like something savory that he can’t quite place but he wants more.

Uniform jackets land on the floor. 

Her turtleneck follows, then his.

He’s rough with her breasts, strong strokes with his thumbs, then dirty fingers pinch hardened nipples through her bra. Pleasure-pain shoots across her chest, electric, and she manages, “That. Keep doing that,” but he doesn’t listen and he bites a nipple just enough for her entire body to jerk and she cries out, hips grinding against him, legs trembling.

“I want —” he gulps for air, “I want you to —”

She fumbles for the button to his trousers.

“Bridge to Captain Janeway.”

They freeze, hair disheveled, eyes wild.

“Bridge to Captain Janeway.”

“Janeway,” she clears her throat, “Janeway here.”

“Mr. Kim has completed his analysis and my security sweep confirms his findings regarding possible sub-nucleonic dangers in this region of space. There are a variety of possible counter-measures, each requiring your immediate attention to prevent damage to the deflector dish.”

Kathryn’s hand drops from Tom’s trouser button. “On my way, Mr. Tuvok. Janeway out.”

A breeze wafts through the windows of the truck. Constellations fill the sky. 

She arcs to the side, hand reaching for her turtleneck and uniform jacket.

“You, uh,” Tom loosens his grip on her rear end, “you may want to check yourself for grease stains. I can call up the sun, if you want.”

Her head shakes. “Keep it like this, please.”

He nods.

Kathryn pulls on her turtleneck, zips her jacket, smooths her hair. Tom’s erection softens and she fights the urge to apologize. “Will you run this program again, do you think?”

“I have the holodeck reserved on Thursday, 1700 hours.” He knows her rank means she can’t speak her emotions, but she’s shown him how she feels. “I could use a driving companion — or a parking pal, if you’re interested.”

Her smile is like starlight, a glimmer of hope and promise. “I would like that very much.”

Then the weight on his lap is gone, the doors hiss again, and, instead of fixing the engine, burying himself in grease and gears, Tom decides to use the rest of his holodeck time to lie on the grass, watching the stars.


End file.
